


The Long Night

by Razzaroo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Medieval Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:52:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: "It’s a rare night that Anders has to himself." Anders, Fenris, and a stab wound to the gut. Welcome to Kirkwall.[repost to the account i actually remember i have]





	The Long Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to another account but I kept forgetting it existed so couldn't justfy keeping it, so may as well import it over here ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s a rare night that Anders has to himself. In the years since joining the Wardens and leaving for Kirkwall, he could count on his fingers the nights that had gone by without one crisis or another drawing him out. But tonight, he indulges himself; he closes the door to the clinic two hours past sundown and posts notices for other healers in the city, people who owe him or Hawke favours and are willing to pay it back by treating Darktown’s poor for free.

“Two babies delivered,” he says, ready to set the day down into record with his stub of a stylus, “Three set limbs, a cracked skull and two isolated infections. That, I call a good day.”

Justice makes no response because of _course_ he doesn’t and Anders puts his records away before opening the small window over his desk, in case the ginger stray ( _he’s named the cat Amell, after his old commander and friend)_ decides to visit tonight.

He sets his kettle to boil over the fire and considers his food store. He’s running low on most things and he ponders for a moment if it’s worth going to Hightown on the off chance Garrett will be home. His heart lifts at the idea, though he feels a twinge of Justice’s annoyance.

It’s a loud thumping on the door that drags him out of his daydream, sending a shudder of fear up his spine, a curdle of dread in his stomach, the whisper of _Templars_ running through his mind louder than usual…

“Anders!”

That’s Garrett’s voice and then Garrett’s boot on the door again and Anders allows himself to relax despite the panicked tone, because it’s one more day he’s safe.  He returns to the clinic, ready to remind Garrett that there is a side entrance to use so as not to attract all of Darktown’s attention, and slides the bolts free.

The first thing he sees is the arrow, long and black. The second thing is blood on Garrett’s face, smeared across his cheek. The third thing he sees is Fenris, a bundle of long limbs and a long arrow in Garrett’s arms.

“What happened?” he asks, stepping aside to let Garrett carry Fenris inside.

“The Coterie happened,” Garrett says and it’s an answer through gritted teeth, “He took the arrow and then one of them stabbed him, in the belly.”

( _Cowards! Justice rages and Anders is inclined to agree.)_

“It’s a small wound,” Fenris says, “It’s not serious and I didn’t need to be brought here.”

Based on how his words dragged, Anders would have argued otherwise, but he bites his tongue as he slides the bolts back into place. Garrett’s set Fenris down and now Anders can see how much blood there really is; he hopes not all of it came from Fenris because if it did…

“Well, of course it’s not serious,” he says, “I always bleed like this from minor wounds.”

“That armour needs to come off,” Anders says, “And careful of the arrow.”

He passes them both to attend the kettle, lifting it off of the fire and pouring the water into a nearby bowl. Using a clean cloth, he scrubbed his hands clean, wincing at the heat. He grabs up his leather role of surgery tools, usually left untouched, as well as his stock of sphagnum moss.

“I’ll need your hands, Hawke,” he says, “So wash them. And bring a cloth, to help stop the bleeding.”

With the armour gone, it’s easier to see the extent of the wounds. The arrow is clotted with blood but it’s the dagger wound that draws Anders’ attention. It’s short but deep and still oozing blood, dark and sticky and streaking Fenris’s markings. The elf’s face was ashen.

“Fenris?” he says, “Can you hear me?”

“I hear you, mage,” Fenris says and those green eyes open again, “I’m just resting.”

“You’ll have time for that after.” Anders can hear Garrett’s hushed cursing, the sound of more water being poured into the kettle to boil, “I haven’t lost anyone to the Coterie yet; I won’t let you be the first.”

Fenris grabbed his wrist, squeezing with surprising strength, “No magic.”

“When have I ever used magic on you?” Anders says, “I know your rules.”

Garrett returns, bringing with him the bowl of water and clean towel. He set them at Anders’ elbow before turning his attention to Fenris, mumbling something Anders couldn’t hear.

“What did they use?”

“A dagger,” Fenris replies, “Short.”

Anders presses his thumb to the wound, trying to find how deep it is, and Fenris wails, spine arching.  The only thing keeping him from bucking away entirely is Garrett’s hold, cautious of his markings and the arrow and everything that could cause pain. Anders withdraws, thumb gory, and unwraps his tools, ignoring Fenris’s venomous stare.

“Here,” Anders says once Garrett has Fenris calm again, the elf’s breathing coming harsh and rushed through his teeth, “Put pressure here. It will staunch the bleeding.”

Garrett holds the towel over the injury, covering it with clean linen, while Anders turns his attention to the arrow. Fenris has one hand wrapped around the shaft, as if he was preparing to pull it himself. Anders uncurls his fingers, moves his hand away.

“This will hurt,” he warns and Fenris, if possible, looks even more grim.

“As if you don’t enjoy it,” he says and Anders sees Garrett sigh so he holds back his response and picks up his arrow spoon and a strip of leather, the latter he slips between Fenris’s teeth.

“You’ve never put that in my mouth,” Garrett says as Anders opens the arrow wound further with his short knife.

“Get shot and I will. Now hush.”

He pushes the arrow spoon into the wound and Fenris’s teeth grind into the leather, one hand grabbing a fistful of Anders’s robes. Anders is surprised he’s still conscious, considering the amount he’d bled, but it’s a good sign.

“Breathe, Fenris,” he murmurs as he finds the arrowhead, hooking the arrow spoon over the tip, “Just breathe.”

“This is the longest you’ve both gone without arguing,” Garrett says, briefly lifting the cloth to check the bleeding, “How does he look?”

Anders pauses his arrow pulling to look at Fenris’s face. The elf’s eyes are closed and his colour is drained, leaving him looking sunken and sickly. His jaw is tightly clenched around the strip of leather.

“Not good,” Anders says, pulling the arrow free in a spurt of blood, “He’s going to need to stay here.”

“This night just continues to get worse,” Fenris slurs, dropping the leather from between his teeth and weakly shifting beneath Garrett’s hands.

Anders sets the arrow aside along with the arrow spoon, both glistening red. He rinses the wound with water and packs it with moss, ignoring Fenris’s pained whine, before turning his attention back to the stab wound to the elf’s belly.

“Magic would make this easier,” he says, “And less painful.”

“You’ve done fine without it,” Garret says, risking a glance at Fenris’s face, “If that colour can be called all right.”

Anders says nothing. The linen towel is wet with blood and Anders mourns its loss; when Fenris pulls through, he’ll be sure the elf knows who’s to blame for this.

“Bandages?” Garrett asks, tweaking Anders’ nose to get his attention, “Where do you keep them?”

“Crate, under the cot by the far wall,” Anders says, “Be quick. He needs to get somewhere more comfortable.”

Using the last clean corner of the towel, he mops up the last of the blood and covers the injury with more moss, the bleeding substantially slowed but not entirely stopped. Fenris is still holding a handful of Anders’s robes, fingers knotted in the fabric, as if that weak grip was what was keeping him conscious. Garrett turns from his foraging, coming up with an armful of clean bandages.

“You’re going to need to sit up,” he says, “And do it slowly because I’m running out of moss and I have other people who will need it.”

Garrett piles the bandages into Anders’ arms and helps Fenris sit up, arm around the elf’s shoulders. Fenris releases his grip on Anders, shaking all over, and he stiffens as Anders starts winding the bandage around his middle, his wounds slowly covered.

“Well,” Garrett says, “If this is minor injuries for Fenris, I would hate to see a serious one.”

Fenris mumbles something in Tevene that Anders guesses is akin to telling Garrett to shut up. Anders ties off the bandages and lets Garrett sweep Fenris off the table. Justice hums contentedly at the back of his mind, satisfied that things had been set right. Anders looks to see Garrett settling Fenris on one of the low cots and he buries a twinge of jealousy.

He shakes his head and fetches his scrubbing brush and yet more water from his ever-diminishing store, scraping lye soap into the bucket and swilling it round, returning to scrub Fenris’s blood away. Suddenly aware of the smell, he hated it. It brings up memories of the Wardens and Templars and all the horrors they came with. The lye gives some relief, washing away the smell of it, cleaning the feel of it off of his hands.

Garrett comes up behind him, warm and solid and smelling like Fenris and iron. He rests his chin on Anders’ shoulder and Anders can’t help but smile. Garrett’s hands cover his on the scrubbing brush and he pauses his cleaning, prompting a hum in Garrett’s throat.

“You’ve done that before,” he says, swaying slightly.

“Of course. This isn’t the first time I’ve put Fenris back together.”

“The Wardens were mad to let you go,” Garrett says, “Mad.” He goes quiet for a moment, “Are you sure he’ll be all right? I’m not going to come back in the morning to find you’ve strangled each other during the night?”

“If he stays unconscious, he might be tolerable,” Anders says, shrugging Garrett off to continue his cleaning, “You might come back to find him gagged.” He catches Garrett looking back to Fenris, “Go home, Garrett. Get some sleep. He’ll be fine.”

Garrett takes a breath, as if about to protest, but he thinks better of it and only sighs. Anders tips the rest of the water over the table, giving it one last scrub, before he sees Garrett to the door. There’s blood on ground right outside and makes a mental note to scrub it in the morning.

“I don’t want to see you back until morning,” Anders says, “So don’t go getting yourself shot.”

He waits until Garrett rounds the corner before retreating back into the clinic, closing the doors and sliding the bolts back into place. For a moment, he stands, head against the wood of the door, and listens to the creaks and groans of building. Fenris’s breathing is laboured and Anders straightens; he still has work to do before he gets any rest.

Fenris has rolled onto his uninjured side, curling up as if trying to shield his injuries. He looks vulnerable lying there, swathed in bandages and one of Anders’ thin blankets. He shifts and opens his eyes when he hears Anders approach.

“Are you going to prod me more?” he mumbles, “Because I think you’ve done enough.”

“I was actually going to offer you something for the pain,” Anders says, “so you can sleep.”

Fenris stares for a long moment before he nods. He very slowly moves onto his back while Anders retrieves his mortar and pestle, dropping in sprigs of elfroot and his last phial of elfroot infusion. It’s all mild and familiar, things they’ve used before; if Fenris wants stronger, he’ll have to ask.

“Here,” he says, uncorking the phial and giving it to Fenris, “If you need something stronger, say.”

He pulls a chair alongside Fenris, propping his feet on the edge of the cot and resting the mortar on his knees, pressing the pestle to the elfroot. Fenris watches him work, phial loose in his hands.

“I used to make these for the Warden-Commander,” Anders says, “He was never any good at it, even in the Circle. Or so he said.”

Fenris drinks and grimaces, “Was he not a mage? Why not just use magic?”

 Anders pauses, pondering his answer. In his mind’s eye, he sees the knife against the Warden’s wrist, the red flow of blood, darkspawn frozen in place as their blood boils…

“These gave me something to do,” he says eventually, “Kept me out of trouble.”

“Perhaps I’ll recommend that to Hawke,” Fenris says, lying back on his side again, “It would make life much easier.”

Anders bites his tongue. He works and he listens as Fenris’s breathing evens out before he stands, going to scrape the contents of the mortar into one of glass flasks, filling it with the last of the water from the kettle and stoppering it. Now everything is done, he feels exhausted, absolutely bone tired.

“Tomorrow,” he says, squashing Fenris’s name in at the bottom of his record for the day, as well as a note on his injuries, “Tomorrow, I’ll have a night without an emergency.”

He digs out his manifesto from where he keeps it under his work bench, hidden under a layer of straw which can be easily immolated if the Templars do come calling.

Fenris doesn’t stir when Anders sits back down alongside the cot. He pushes the elf’s hair away from his face; Fenris still looks washed out and ill, even his markings looking dim. Anders sighs and slumps back, his manifesto across his knees.

It’s going to be a long night.


End file.
